


Pleasured to Kill

by LadyLustful



Category: Assassin's Creed - All Media Types
Genre: Altair has a killing kink but is still a somewhat decent person, Alternate Universe, Character Study, F/M, Gen, arguably - Freeform, possessive Maria
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-10
Updated: 2017-08-10
Packaged: 2018-12-13 19:10:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,114
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11766474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLustful/pseuds/LadyLustful
Summary: Altair likes killing. Maria likes Altair. They make it work.Or, an attempt to write a person with a snuff kink who is neither a human dumpster fire nor quite crippled with guilt.





	Pleasured to Kill

**Author's Note:**

> I have met with a distinction between kink and fetish - kink is something that makes a person aroused, fetish is something that a person can't get aroused without. In this fic, it is the former rather than the latter.  
> Title from Kreator.

Altair seems to be in love with killing.

That is her first thought; before she even knows he is named Altair. Back then, he is simply the hooded, white-robed man with a sword who fights better than her and at least six other Templars, swift and agile and brutal. He has all the sleek grace and savage bite of a wild predator, one of the large cats of the east she has heard about maybe, sword moving faster than she can hope to intercept it, and Maria hopes that one day she will be able to fight like that, for a fleeting while, before she realizes that she will not live to fight another day. Literally. She will die here, hacked apart by a killing machine who, judging by his exhilarated grin, seems much happier about his task than anybody has any right to be.

And then he has her disarmed, pressed against her with ruthless strength and a something enough like a perverse parody of tenderness that she is sure he has by some unholy miracle recognized her as a woman and intends to take her by force. And then, then he pulls off her helmet (or at least she thinks he does) and that notion, ridiculous and out of place as it is, is only reinforced.  
“What sorcery is this?” he utters instead – and turns away, vanishing into the city, leaving her blessedly alive – and kneeling in a corner, staring after him, wondering what hellish sorcery this is indeed.

As their acquaintance progresses, Maria learns much more about Altair, who turns out to be an at least somewhat decent man - and a ruthless, disturbingly proficient killer who enjoys it a lot more than is normal. It makes it easier for her to reconcile the two sides when she thinks of him as a soldier. Killing kind of comes with the territory even if you weren't bred and raised for that purpose – Altair simply takes more pride and joy in his work than most. And Maria – well, let it just be said that if there is something wrong with him, there is definitely something wrong with her, because every time he presses his blade to the throat of a target she finds herself jealous of his embrace, lethal as it may be, every time he leaves a bloody body on the ground, she finds herself oddly, maliciously glad at the death, and every time she sees him fight she cannot help wondering about whether that passion transfers to other activities.

The first time she kisses him he is at first confused – not because he doesn't know she likes him, or because he doesn't know what people do when they like each other – but because he is caught up in his last kill, thinking about the man's last words and going over all the little things that went right, or wrong, or wrong-but-could-have-gone-wronger. And kissing has no place anywhere in an assassination, or near it, and just seems wrong to have soft, chapped lips upon his own when moment ago he was sliding a blade into a man's flesh. And then something in his mind shifts like shifting sand and suddenly it seems right, the mission in his mind changing from murder to something far more peaceful if no less sinful according to scholars. And let them think so – they do not know everything and it is certainly not his place to correct everyone's illusions.

It's awkward at first, as first times between new lovers always are, but they draw in easily. Altair is strong and agile and a quick learner, his hands large and warm and callused, and has the decency to obey when she tells him what she wants (because if her time as a Templar has taught her anything it is that men do not read minds – they bloody well need to be told what to do and some won't do even that – it is as true of making love as it is of making war). And he is fascinated with how different she is – with her pale English skin and toned soldier's body, with the strength she shows, with how she will order him around, well accustomed to giving commands, and the crass English words she will say to him that he only understands less than half of but still finds unspeakably (refreshingly, tantalizingly) filthy. By how she will take control of him sometimes, holding him down as she takes her pleasure, or how she looks, shameless, wanton, yet still commanding, rubbing herself right above where he sinks into her. (And that spot, he decides, is a wonderful bit of sorcery indeed, for all the ways he can tease it to reduce Maria to moaning, incoherent pleasure – only not his favourite because Maria's body has so many other places in whose exploration he gladly loses himself again and again.)

And if he is all the more passionate, more urgent in the wake of an assassination, she might think nothing of it, her own blood stirred by the thrill of the chase, the joy of a game won. Except he tells her himself – some truths are too relevant to conceal them with silence, some omissions too relevant to built a future on – a future with that he would desperately love with Maria, yet fears he might not have in the light of the revelation.

“Maria, I have something of a secret to share.”  
“Really? Well, out with it then. I promise I won't tell anyone else.”  
“I like killing”, he says, feeling like he fell off the fortress walls, or maybe into cold murky water, and waits for her outrage, for her disgust.  
“I know”, she responds calmly. “I've seen you.”  
“No. You misunderstand me. I enjoy it. It pleasures me, like... like...”, he trails off.  
“Like what we do together?”  
He nods, forces himself to speak, voice unusually small and broken for himself.  
“Nearly, if not quite.”  
“You damn fool, I have known since before we first fucked. For a master of stealth, you are really obvious in some matters. And I don't mind. You are obviously a decent person...”  
“Hardly.”  
“You are. You do not torture, you do not harm the innocent, you do not force the unwilling. I have known men of your... proclivities who exercised no such restraint. You cannot help your passions but you can control your actions, and those are those of a good man; therefore you are one. It's as simple as that."

 Altair is in love with killing and that is all right with Maria. After all, she is the only one one who can make him feel feel that way and live.


End file.
